The woman that broke the fall
by Aussieflower
Summary: post Reichenbach. What if Irene Adler had turned up just as Sherlock jumped? How would she react? And would she be able to tell if Sherlock was faking? There is an established Sherlock/Irene ship here  but discreet , but also some Irene/John frienship. x


**Hello! I just realised that the Reichenbach Fall is an almsot ideal oppurtunity for fellow Irene and Sherlock shippers to write, and I've been using it! There is something I just love about this pairing, and I couldn't help but wonder what if... :D**

**Anyways, I can't say I am actually too happy with this story. I know that most people don't publish a story here until they think it's perfect, but I'm not really one of them... **

**I'm not very satsisfied with the ending, I just got the idea for this fic yesterday at school, and couldn't do anything until I had it written out. I basically wanted to see Irene and Sherlock's roles at the morgue reversed (e.g , what if Irene had had to come and identify Sherlock's body? Would she know he was faking or not? How would she react?) Anyways, that's what this fic is about, but I didn't really think much about what would happen after that, so everything after is probably OOC and rushed.**

**Hope you like it anyways x**

He stood there ready to fall. He had called John to say his goodbyes, texted Irene and had done his best to make sure that thw whole world knew that he was a fraud.

It was the only way.

He threw his phone to the side and got ready to jump.

.

.

.

John screamed as Sherlock jumped.

He looked like a angel, falling, falling.

Falling from grace.

His own scream drowned out another person's.

A young woman with short blonde hair and dark brown eyes.

She was standing near John, shock and anguish written all over her face.

John didn't notice her.

But she noticed him.

She didn't get knocked over by the bike, instead she rushed straight to Sherlock's side, desperately _hoping._

She begged to be let through, desperately hoping that he wasn't dead. But there was nothing. No pulse, no breath, no spark in those piercing eyes.

Dark, red blood covered the pavement.

Sherlock's blood.

She registered John pushing through now, his voice sounding as desperate as hers.

She shook her head. There was nothing John could do to help anymore. Nobody could do anything now.

There were more people rushing out of the hospital now, slowly putting the limp body on a stretcher and taking it to the morgue. Several of them walked up to John, putting a blanket around his shoulders and asking if he could identify the body.

John nodded numbly, barely reacting to what anyone was saying. It all sounded like a loud blaring in his ears. He slightly registered a blonde haired woman sitting down next to him, a blanket also being put around her. She was talking to one of the medical officers, but John didn't bother to listen.

Two words broke him in the end however.

"-_Sherlock Holmes_."

It was like waking up. He had been seeing things in slow motion now, and now finally sound reached his ears, the wind whipped his hair and tears slid down his face. He heard what people were saying, could see the traffic lights, taste his tears.

He looked at the woman next to him, the one who had uttered the name. She was asking if she could identify the body.

He blinked, disorientated. She was quite tall, but her sandy blonde hair was short and layered around her face. Her eyes were a dark brown, and one perfect tear trickled down her cheek. She spoke with a slight Scottish accent.

John was fairly certain he had never seen her before, but she looked at him with eyes full of sympathy.

He blinked again, blinded from shock and grief and dizziness and tears. He tried to drown out the constant pounding in his ears, and tried to shut the annoying voice in the back of his head up. "Sherlock is dead" it kept saying over and over, and there was some sort of finality to it.

John breathed out, long ragged breaths, occasionally choking up on them, desperately trying to block out the situation in his head.

This wasn't happening. Sherlock couldn't possibly be dead.

_Please God_, he prayed to himself. _Please God, let this be a dream_.

He sat there for what seemed like hours, until someone gently tugged at his sleeve. The woman next to him had an arm on his shoulder.

"They want to know if you want to go and help me identify the body" she said, her voice suddenly eerily cold and detached.

Like Sherlock's sometimes.

He frowned slightly, not really comprehending.

"Who are you?" he managed to get out in a choked up whisper. It was all he could manage right now. "What gives you the _right_-?"

He broke off, not able to continue.

"I'm a friend of Sherlock's" the woman said in the same emotionless tone.

John raised his eyebrows, trying to process her words.

A friend of Sherlock's. But he had never seen this woman before.

And Sherlock hadn't mentioned her in his last phone call.

Was this some sort of outsider, some intruder?

Right now, he barely cared.

She looked at him, as if hoping for an answer, a nod, a reaction, anything. But John just sat there numbly.

"I'm going" she said finally, effectively breaking the silence. She stood up, seeming calm and controlled but shocked and broken at the same time.

So much like Sherlock.

Without knowing quite where he was going, John followed her, letting her arm guide him, like a blind person.

They ended up at the morgue, Sherlock's body on a cold metal slab, covered in a crisp white sheet.

Molly was there. Her eyes were slightly red, but there were no tears. She looked heartbroken when she saw John though and immediately swept him into a hug.

John held on, desperately, needing some sort of comfort.

"Molly" he managed, before more tears threatened to make an appearance. _"Oh God_-"

"Lestrade and Mycroft are on their way." Molly said quietly, looking at John with extreme concern and sadness in her eyes. "Lestrade saw the CCTV, and Mycroft figured it out…somehow. You know him…"

"Fuck Mycroft" John said quietly, but with hatred in his voice. "This is Mycroft's fault. All of it".

The woman beside him drew in a sharp intake of breath, this was news to her.

Molly finally noticed her presence and turned around sharply. "Who are you?" she asked, not recognising the woman at all.

The woman drew in a deep breath. "An old friend of Sherlock's" she said. "I came to help identify the body."

Molly eyed her slightly suspiciously. "He never said anything about you" she said slowly. "Do you know who this is?" she asked John, in a lower tone. But he just shook his head.

"I don't suppose he mentioned me much" the woman said, sounding sad and cold at the same time. "But we were very close and I want to see him. One last time." She drew in a deep breath, allowing emotion to overtake her for one small moment, before she regained her composure.

At that minute Lestrade and Mycroft entered. Lestrade's face resembled complete and utter shock, while Mycroft looked as he always did – calm, cool, and completely in control.

It made John hate him all the more.

Lestrade stared at the metal slab as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "Oh God" he muttered, shaken, "Sherlock…._bloody_ _hell_."

He stared at the slab as if hypnotised, and didn't turn to face or acknowledge anyone else in the room.

Mycroft barely glanced at the slab, but fixed his cold gaze on the woman standing next to it.

"Who are you?" he said, ice in his voice, narrowing his eyes.

The woman looked at Mycroft with something close to hatred in her brown eyes. Her expression was as cold as Mycroft's.

"I'm his _friend_" she said strongly, emotion filtering through.

But Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow.

"He never mentioned _you_" he said coldly.

The woman remained perfectly unintimidated. "Yes I know. You should know, Mr Holmes, that there are certain things that your brother kept from you, _despite_ all your efforts to monitor him."

Mycroft looked slightly taken aback.

Lestrade looked at her as if he had just noticed her.

John" he began, but John turned on him with a completely dead look in his eyes.

"Shut up" he said, and his tone was suddenly emotionless. Right now, he hated Lestrade, hated Mycroft, hated everyone who ever doubted Sherlock Holmes and who had caused this.

He hated himself for not being there for Sherlock.

"Umm, can I?" Molly asked hesitantly, holding the corners of the sheet, covering Sherlock's lifeless body. Her enquiry was met by silence.

No one wanted to see Sherlock dead.

Mycroft's voice broke through the quiet. "Please proceed, Miss Hooper" he said, and John wanted to punch him for his lack of emotion.

Molly tugged the sheet down slightly, and everyone (excluding Molly and Mycroft) gasped slightly. Sherlock was just lying there; utterly still, with no witty or snide remarks, no gleam in his eyes, nothing.

Dead.

John drew in ragged breaths, close to tears once again.

Lestrade simply stared, as if paralysed.

The woman looked at Sherlock, begging the heavens that this was not him.

"Show me the rest of him" she said, slowly, deliberately, and everyone stared at her in shock.

"Sorry?" Molly said, completely taken aback.

The woman simply stared at her, and after a while Molly pulled the sheet back to reveal Sherlock's naked body.

The woman sighed with relief, though to everyone else it sounded like a sharp intake of breath.

The woman was sure that this was not Sherlock. She knew Sherlock better than anyone, and knew exactly what he looked like. The face may have looked the same, but there was something wrong. Sherlock had the tiniest scar just above the knee; she knew about it, she had been there when he received it. A tiny burn mark that would never fade.

But there was no mark here.

So this couldn't possibly be Sherlock.

Which meant that Sherlock was alive. He had faked his own death.

But that meant that he desperately wanted people to believe he was dead, because he hadn't even told John. He would have done anything to spare John the pain, unless it was absolutely necessary.

He hadn't even told her.

But Mycroft knew obviously. There was no way the 'Iceman' could remain so absolutely emotionless at seeing his little brother lie dead on slab. Especially not when the little brother in question had died because of Mycroft's stupid actions.

So Mycroft was in on it. So was Molly apparently. John and Lestrade knew her, and so did Mycroft and the way John spoke to her showed that he was on good terms with her, which meant that she was probably friends with Sherlock too.

Sherlock had told her about Molly once briefly. So Molly knew that Sherlock was faking. It made sense, Sherlock would need someone at the morgue who could pretend to examine the body and possibly fabricate the DNA tests. Both Molly and Mycroft were in an ideal position to do that.

The woman had to keep from smiling; she was just so utterly relieved. But smiling would give Sherlock away.

Instead she blinked, and pretended to brush back a tear. "It's him" she said, and walked out of the morgue.

.

.

.

She realised that she was being watched on her way out of St. Barts, but didn't realise how serious the situation was until strong arms suddenly grabbed her and dragged her backwards into an alleyway.

She struggled against the man's grip, but it was like iron. One hand was clamped over her mouth, the other around her waist.

"Stop" the attacker whispered in her ear, and the woman did.

Completely.

Sherlock's voice.

She turned around slowly, expecting to see him the way he always looked like.

Instead of him there was a stranger there, wearing dark blue jeans, a navy shirt and a black jumper. He had blonde, straight hair covering most of his face, but his eyes remained the same.

She stared at him, and he brushed one finger tenderly across her cheek.

"Knew you would figure it out Irene" he murmured quietly and took her hand.

.

.

.

They ended up going to a hotel he was staying at for the night. Once there, Sherlock took off his wig and explained everything to her. Exactly what had happened and how he had managed to fake his death. They agreed that Sherlock would stay with her in New Zealand for some time, until Moriarty's people were convinced that he was dead.

Sherlock did beg her to go and try to comfort John. Irene had told him how broken John was and Sherlock looked immensely guilty at the fact.

"It was the only way" he said quietly. Irene knew that Sherlock would rather have a sad John than a dead one.

She did go that night, when Sherlock was already on a plane to New Zealand. She decided to try and stay with John for a few days (provided he let her) to try and comfort him, before joining Sherlock.

She knew that John wouldn't trust her if she stayed in her disguise though, and decided to reveal herself to him.

Like Sherlock had said, it was the only way.

.

.

.

She turned up at 221B Baker Street that evening. John was already there, sitting on one of the chairs, simply staring at the wall.

He didn't even notice her until she stood directly in front of him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, when he finally realised that she was standing before him.

She looked at him sympathetically, just as she had earlier that day.

"I wanted to see if you were alright" she said simply, sitting down opposite.

John laughed bitterly. Do I look alright?" he asked and didn't expect an answer. She smiled tentatively at him, and started sorting through the numerous magazines on the coffee table.

"_Who are you_?" he asked after a while, eyeing her suspiciously. "And how do you know Sherlock? You asked to see the rest of his body, you-" He broke off, not quite knowing what to say.

They sat in silence for a bit. John didn't really seem to expect answers.

"Have you had anything to eat?" Irene asked after a while, because John just sat completely still, unmoving. John looked at her, but didn't bother answering. Irene sighed.

"I'll make tea" she said.

John just shrugged.

"I don't even know your name" he said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, while she gathered up tea things in the kitchen.

"I'm sure you do, Doctor Watson" she said, smiling to herself slightly, and making sure that there was no thumb or some sort of body part submerged in the milk.

John finally turned around and faced her suspiciously. "How do you know mine?" he asked, and noted that she no longer spoke with a Scottish accent when she talked. Instead her voice was warm, and she spoke as if she came from the south. Her voice sounded familiar to him.

She turned around slowly. "I suppose it's time you found out" she said. "I know you've had a rough day today, and I hope that this shock won't be too great." With that she removed her wig and contact lenses, as well as her black reading glasses.

John simply stared.

"_No_" he said, blinking. "No, you're dead. Mycroft told me that you-"

"Sherlock saved me" Irene admitted quietly. "And we've been meeting ever since. He sent me a text before he jumped." She continued, because John was still staring at her. "I was on my way to visit him in London anyway, in disguise of course. I got the text before I told him I was coming and rushed to the building." She took a deep breath. "But it was too late by then."

John sagged back in his chair, hating the constant reminder of Sherlock's death.

"I miss Sherlock" Irene added. "As much as you do."

"He never told me any of this" John said quietly, and Irene knew that John was slowly reaching his boiling point. He had been through so much today, and now he had just found out that Sherlock had been having a secret affair with a supposedly dead ex dominatrix…every person had a point where they just snapped.

"He couldn't tell you" Irene said. "We promised each other, and absolutely no one knew about it. We never knew when Mycroft would be monitoring the flat. Not to mention that Moriarty's people were still after me. We thought it best to keep the whole thing secret."

John nodded quietly and simply sat in his chair. His tea lay before him untouched.

Irene sighed and got up.

"Hope dies last John" she said. "I know you're mad at Sherlock for jumping, but he did it for a reason, he had to have a reason. Maybe he wanted to protect us-"

John looked up suddenly, a slight spark in his eyes.

"You're saying it wasn't suicide?" he asked, sounding almost…hopeful.

Irene shrugged. "It could have been, but Sherlock wasn't the type to commit suicide, he was too fond of himself. Just…don't blame him for this, John."

John sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

"I don't know how I can manage" he choked out after a while. Irene went over to him and put an arm on his shoulder.

"I know" she said. "I'm always here if you need to talk John." She took a deep breath. "One of Sherlock's last wishes when he texted me was to make sure that you were okay." Irene paused slightly, as if gathering up the courage to say something. "I loved Sherlock, and I fully intend to carry out that wish." She closed her eyes. "I think I might need you too" she added.

John looked at her for a long moment and nodded.

Irene smiled. "Do you want me to stay here for now?" she asked, but John shook his head.

"I think I need sometime alone" he said heavily, as if he had just realised the weight of the situation.

Irene studied him for a moment. "Alright" she said gently. "But I'm coming over tomorrow. And if you need me John, today, or anytime, I promise that I will come. Even if you want to call me at one thirty in the morning."

John nodded and closed his eyes. He wondered whether or not Irene was doing this because she wanted to carry out Sherlock's last wish or because she actually wanted to help. Maybe she felt as sad as he did?

Irene paused for a second, eyes looking over John once again. She was worried about him. She knew that John and Sherlock had loved each other like brothers and she understood John's grief. Once again she thanked god that Sherlock was alive, though she felt horrible for not being able to tell John. It hurt her to see a man so very broken and lost, a man who had given up hope.

"John" she said quietly, and the sincerity, gentleness and pure emotion in her tone made John look up, almost startled. He had never heard her use this tone before.

"John, please promise me you won't do anything stupid" she said, almost pleading with him. He looked surprised at the notion, but after a second his eyes were once again hollow and devoid of every emotion except pain.

He nodded once, and Irene knew that she wouldn't get anything more out of him tonight. She put on her wig, contacts and glasses.

"Goodnight John" she said and slipped out the door. He barely noticed her leave.

The young woman walked out of 221B, and into the waiting night.

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**Hope you liked it, and please review!**

e spoke with a sl tears.n, and one perfect teartrickled down her cheek. now finally sound reached his ears, the wind wipped his


End file.
